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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27401257">The things of kindness</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosa_himmelblau/pseuds/Merricat%20Kiernan'>Merricat Kiernan (rosa_himmelblau)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Roadhouse Blues [46]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiseguy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:07:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,076</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27401257</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosa_himmelblau/pseuds/Merricat%20Kiernan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The never-ending mess of Vince's life keeps entangling Frank.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Roadhouse Blues [46]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1069713</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The things of kindness</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was supposed to be over. Lococco had called, making his meaningless report of nothing, nothing, and more nothing, and when he'd finished Frank had sighed and told him that there was no reason to keep looking, that they'd found Vince's body.</p>
<p>That was supposed to be the end of it, but Lococco had gotten very quiet, then told Frank he'd be there in the morning.</p>
<p>"What for?" Frank wanted to know. The last person he wanted to see was Roger Lococco. Well, maybe second-to-last. He wasn't exactly anxious to see Rudy Aiuppo, either, but since Rudy wasn't on the phone telling him he'd be at his house in the morning, that wasn't really a problem.</p>
<p>"I want the details."</p>
<p>Frank had started to argue, but Roger hung up on him.</p>
<p><i>Well, shit. </i> Frank hadn't been prepared for this kind of meshugaas.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Frank didn't particularly want to sit around his apartment waiting for Roger, or sit around with him, talking about Vince's imaginary death, so instead of waiting, he went out. Either Lococco the Great Finder of Lost OCB Agents would find him as well, or he wouldn't, and either way that would be all right with Frank. In fact, <i>wouldn't</i> would be better. Frank couldn't imagine what there was to talk about.</p>
<p>He did his grocery shopping and also bought himself half a dozen pairs of much-needed shorts and socks, and three T-shirts. Roger had not tracked him to K-Mart. Nor, Frank discovered when he got home, had he broken down Frank's front door, left a note pinned to it, or left himself sitting on the front steps. Frank put the food away and Roger didn't show up while he was doing it, so Frank left again, going to get his oil changed, then back to K-Mart for the furnace filters he'd forgotten to get. And then he took his new socks and underwear to the laundromat.</p>
<p>Vince had thought that was funny, that Frank washed brand new clothes, but Frank liked to wash away whatever chemicals they put in new clothes nowadays. Frank wasn't sure what chemicals they were, or even if they were there, for absolutely sure, but he felt better if he washed them out before he wore his new clothes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <i>For a moment Steelgrave didn't recognize him.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>When he did, a look of wariness—a predator on the defensive—came into not just his face, but his whole body, and Frank had the horrible fear he was going to bolt, disappear, and that would be the end of everything.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Instead he closed the door behind him, came further into the room, pulled the second office chair a little bit away from Frank's, and sat down in it. No one said anything. The ticking of the silver clock on the wall of Tracy's Steelgrave's office had the same light sound as the patter of the rain on the windows, only its precision differentiating it from the scattershot ticking of the raindrops. No one said anything.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Finally Tracy cleared her throat. "You should know, Agent McPike, that I am acting as my uncle's counsel in this—" she hesitated. "Situation."</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"Frank," Frank said.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"I beg your pardon?"</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"Call me Frank. This isn't official. This isn't—this isn't even happening."</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Steelgrave was still just looking at him. Nothing was going to happen unless Frank put it into motion.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"Vinnie's sick," he said, the same words he'd said when he'd called Tracy Steelgrave two days earlier. "Not—the fever's broken, but he's eating his heart out. He's been prone to depression for a long time now, he came close to killing himself once. The doctors are worried about his life; his friends, the ones who know he's alive, are afraid for his sanity. Myself—" He could barely say the words, but he had to, this was Vince, and what wouldn't he do for Vince? Nothing. There was nothing he wouldn't do for him. "I'm afraid for his soul."</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Frank couldn't have explained why he put it that way—he believed in souls, but not as a separate thing from man's particular intelligence, the thing that divided him from the other animals. Maybe it was his lapsed Catholicism; maybe it was Steelgrave's, or a combination that might make up a common language.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"You want me to save his soul?" Steelgrave's words were more than a little incredulous.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"Yeah, I want you to save his soul. All you've gotta do is tell him you forgive him."</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"What makes you think I do?"</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Good question. But Frank had an answer. "It doesn't matter. A lie will work just as well as the truth."</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Steelgrave sort of laughed. "Yeah, that makes sense, that you could save the soul of a liar with a lie. But why would I want to?"</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"To save your own soul." It wasn't a smart thing to say; it was either a remarkably stupid thing to say, or it was the right thing, and Frank had no idea which, he was doing this on instinct—on instinct he didn't possess, he was doing it on Vince's instinct, like walking a tightrope in the dark.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"To save my soul? Did you change jobs while nobody was looking? Since when do you care about my soul?"</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"I don't. I care about my friend, who is—even if he's not dying on the outside, he's dying on the inside. He's very sick, and some of that is malnourishment and fear and some of it's some disease I don't know the name of, but some if is <b>you,</b> the guilt he feels for betraying you because he loved you and he believes that it's wrong to betray someone you love, no matter who they are, no matter what your reason." There, it was out, Steelgrave could do with it what he wanted.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Steelgrave stood up, walked past Frank to the window. Frank's gaze followed him, catching Tracy in his line of sight for just a moment; she was watching Steelgrave too, frowning.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>After an endless ten minutes of Steelgrave looking out the window—Frank had started counting the clock's ticks, to keep himself from saying anything—he finally turned around. "What's in it for me? Besides saving my soul, which I don't think you're really in a position to guarantee."</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Stupid, stupid, I should have expected this! "I'm sure his step-father would be willing to—"</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>But Steelgrave was shaking his head, walking over to Tracy, kissing her on the cheek. "I'll talk to you later." And he was walking out the door.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Frank was on his feet, following, Tracy was calling her uncle's name—</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>But Steelgrave was walking down the hall to the elevator.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Frank caught the elevator doors before they closed, stepped quickly inside. They were alone.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"I suppose now you won't talk to me because your lawyer isn't present?"</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Steelgrave said something under his breath that Frank couldn't make out, possibly because it was in Italian.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"<b>What</b>? What do you want? If I've got it, if I can get it, I'll—"</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Frank hated the way Steelgrave smiled at him, but even more he hated the one word Steelgrave said. Then the doors opened and he was walking away again.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>And Frank was following because what else could he do?</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"I can't do that!"</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Steelgrave stopped, turned to face him. "Why not?"</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"Because I don't <b>own </b>him, I can't just give him—"</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"Semantics. Just bring him here."</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"He's too sick to travel—" Frank temporized.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"So you left him in Central America?" Steelgrave's eyebrows were raised, clearly not believing this.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"No, he's—" Frank stopped, not wanting to say.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"What, were you thinking you wouldn't have to tell me? That I'd let you blindfold me and I'd sit in the backseat of your car while you drove me—wherever?"</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>No, of course not, that was stupid. Still, he hated saying it. "He's in Phoenix."</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"Not that far. You can get him here."</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"And even if I do, then what?"</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"You leave."</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"What guarantee do I have of his safety?"</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"Who says you have any?"</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Yeah, that was what Frank was afraid of. "This decision isn't mine to make." That was true; the decision was Vince's, even though Vince was in no shape to make it.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"Then whoever you're working for sent the wrong guy. Have 'em send somebody who <b>can</b> make decisions, and I'll talk to him." Steelgrave turned to walk away again.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"What happens when he gets here?" Frank asked. Steelgrave turned around but did not move closer, making Frank walk toward him to keep from having to shout. Not that he didn't want to shout. He wanted to shout and kick and bite and throw things. He didn't, though; he just walked close enough to Steelgrave to punch him in the face, though he didn't do that, either. "What happens when he gets here?"</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"You leave."</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"No, I mean, what happens to him?"</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>If Frank had hated Steelgrave's smile before, he loathed it now, and he loathed even more the suggestive tone in his voice when he answered.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Frank woke up. He had fallen asleep in the empty laundromat, lulled by boredom and the sloshing sounds of his lone washer. His previous night of sleeplessness had caught up with him, and brought back the nightmare he'd started having a few months ago.</p>
<p>It had started without any warning, starting off as a recurring waking nightmare. Minding his own business—shaving, driving to work, feeding the dog—he suddenly saw Vinnie being rescued not by Rudy's guys, but by Roger's, and Roger delivering him home, fevered, delirious, confused—and begging for Sonny.</p>
<p>And what <b>would</b> they have done, he and Roger? Well, of course <b>they</b> wouldn't have kept Vinnie's whereabouts from Rudy, so the fact that neither he nor Lococco would even have known to look for Steelgrave, let alone where—wouldn't have mattered. Would he have been able to do what Rudy did? Would Steelgrave have come, if it was some fed come begging instead of Don Aiuppo? And if he had, and he and Vince had sneaked off together in the middle of the night, who would they have gotten to come save Frank from losing <b>his</b> mind?</p>
<p>Frank had hated all of it, right from the very first moment Stan Dermott had told him Vince was his new superduck. To Stan, superduck meant shining hope of the justice system. To Frank, it meant a coddled, spoiled know-it-all who'd probably end up getting himself killed on Frank's watch. Stan Dermott had been a terrible training officer, spoiling every agent he dealt with, and of course the lousy ones just loved him. Then Frank, or some other poor field director, got to try to make the situation work. Will duBois had been a superduck, before the Zhoratsos had used a knife to remove select body parts, carve on him like he was an old high school desk, and then murder him. Frank had never told Vince that, and he'd never forgiven Dermott.</p>
<p>Vince had turned out to be the exception that proved the rule. Dermott might have spoiled him a little, and God knew Vince tried to slide by on his charm, but he was still so much better—and smarter—than anything else Stan Dermott ever turned out. It took Frank too long to realize that, and by the time he did, Vince was—whatever—with Steelgrave.</p>
<p>Frank didn't want to think about that <i>whatever,</i> but goddamn if it wasn't like watching a train wreck. Meaningless, extraneous question kept coming to mind: how long <b>had</b> this been going on? It must have started during the case—Steelgrave had risked too much for Vince for it to be anything less than—</p>
<p>Less than what? True love? Shit. True love, so he'd left him for Frank the way those morons in the Jetta had left his adopted puppy by the side of the road.</p>
<p>No. Steelgrave hadn't done that. He'd brought Vince to New York and he'd called Frank, he'd looked him in the face and asked if Frank wanted Vince back. He'd acted—and it near-killed Frank to even think the thought—unselfishly. Damn him.</p>
<p>Frank was suddenly grateful he was no longer in the field as either agent or handler. Though he'd never been able to see the world in black and white the way Vince always claimed, Frank had quickly learned to see the criminals he was assigned to investigate just that way: either they had committed crimes—and it was his job to see them prosecuted—or they hadn't—and it was his job to find out who had, and see <b>them</b> prosecuted. You didn't make friends with the mark, you didn't take him to your mother's house for Sunday dinner, and you didn't, for God's sake, fall in love with him. You just didn't.</p>
<p>But then when had Vince ever been a rule-follower?</p>
<p>There wasn't anyone Frank could talk to about these dreams. Dan was the person he trusted most, but even Dan was . . . no. And not even a priest or shrink, with their promises of confidentiality, not even they could be trusted with Vince, or even Frank's dreams of Vince.</p>
<p>Frank didn't want to fall back to sleep—there was more to the dream, there always was, whether Frank was awake or asleep, and he always had that second part, even if he got up in the middle of the night to try to avoid it. Might as well have it here in a laundromat; maybe then he wouldn't have it tonight in his bed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Old times. Old times. <i> Those two words just kept echoing in Frank's mind as he sat gripping the steering wheel. If the steering wheel had been made of coal, he'd have turned it into diamonds on the drive from Phoenix. "What the hell does 'old times' mean, anyway?" Not that he didn't know what old times meant, but—what did it mean? Steelgrave was going to buy Vince a ridiculously expensive suit, put him up in a fancy penthouse, have Vince drive him around in a snazzy car?</i></p>
<p>
  <i>Frank had argued against this—had argued against it twice, first with Roger, then with Rudy, and he'd lost the argument both times. He'd known before he ever started talking that he was going to lose it to Roger, but he'd expected Rudy to be on his side. But Rudy had tiredly agreed that there was no other choice, and after that he'd said nothing at all.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Frank glanced over his shoulder at Vince, who was sleeping in the backseat. Steelgrave would be here any minute, and Frank would get out of this rented car, and Steelgrave would get in and drive away and then—what? Frank didn't know. A part of Frank didn't want to know. The rest of him was going crazy trying to understand this thing that was happening, a ghost from Vince's past was going to take him away, probably forever. It was wrong, and it made no sense.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>He was startled by tapping on the window; he looked out and there was Steelgrave, who was supposed to be dead, who <b>should</b> be dead, who wasn't dead.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"You wanna open the door?"</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Frank opened the door, got out of the car. Steelgrave got in, not sitting behind the wheel but kneeling on the seat, leaning over the back of it, shaking Vinnie's shoulder. Frank walked away, not wanting to hear what Steelgrave said, even though he wanted desperately to know—</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"Vinnie. Baby. Wake up. It's OK."</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Frank kept walking, not looking back.</i>
</p>
<p>"Frank?"</p>
<p>
  <i>Frank kept walking, not looking back.</i>
</p>
<p>"Frank?"</p>
<p>
  <i>Frank kept walking, not looking back.</i>
</p>
<p>"Frank!" The voice intruding on his dream was gentle but impatient. "I think it's time for you to go home."</p>
<p>Frank opened his eyes. Lococco was looking at him with something between annoyance and pity. It was still better than the dream he'd been having.</p>
<p>So Lococco <b>could</b> find an OCB agent, if you gave him a general area to look in. Maybe Frank should have strayed farther from home.</p>
<p>Too late now. Here was Roger, and Frank's underwear was waiting to be put in the dryer, so he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. Take care of Roger first, then Frank could dry his underwear and go home.</p>
<p>"Siddown," Frank said, moving the stack of old magazines off the chair next to him and sticking them under his own chair. And when Roger just stood there, he said it again. "Sit down, Rog." Roger started to say something, but Frank interrupted him. "Sit. Down." The way he said it made it sound like a slightly lunatic threat.</p>
<p>Not that Roger was impressed. "Frank, I did not take time out of my busy schedule to watch you do your laundry. I want to know about Vince." But Roger sat down.</p>
<p>"What do you want to know?" Frank asked. "He's dead." Roger was yanking his chain, and Frank didn't know why, but he was getting ticked off.</p>
<p>"You're sure it was him?"</p>
<p><i>Jesus Christ! </i>"His body washed up on the Jersey shore. I IDed him myself, and they ran the forensics." <i> Also, the Archangel Gabriel said so! What more do you want?</i></p>
<p>"And you didn't call me?"</p>
<p>"To do what? Can you raise the dead? You told me not to call you unless I needed something. I didn't need anything. Now, if we're done with this, I have laundry to finish." Frank got up and went over to the washer and began transferring his clothes to a dryer. <i> I should have brought a laundry basket.</i></p>
<p>Roger was looking at him very strangely. "Vince is dead and your response is to do your laundry." Roger said it as though he was describing some preternatural phenomenon.</p>
<p>Frank started to say something, but what he really wanted to do was shoot Roger—or at least hit him—not so much for all those months of letting him believe Vince was still missing, but for playing with him now. But hitting Roger would lead nowhere Frank wanted to go—come to think of it, there wasn't anywhere he wanted to go with Roger Lococco, and now that everything was settled with Vince, now that Vince was no longer in his life, there was no reason for him to. So Frank walked out, just walked out of the laundromat, just walked away, not looking back at whatever Roger was saying to him.</p>
<p>Just walked away, not looking back.</p>
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